Song Of My Life
by Corazie
Summary: Set two years after S2, Jal lets us know how life is treating her now, and how there's someone special always on her mind. May continue if reviewers wish it.


Skins Life and its forum have had a little make over, go and check out the C2 and the amazing fics listed. New in the forum is a news section which is regularly up-dated.

**Song of My Life**

It's dark down here, in this basement wine bar. I'm on a stage only a step up from the main floor, close to the low ceiling, surrounded by tables and chairs and a few people sipping their drinks. I play here three nights a week. I get money and I can carry on living my pitiful existence.

Nothing has been the same since he died. How could it be? We were soul mates, meant to be together, the two pieces of a jigsaw that join up first and stay together, right until the end. Only we didn't. He left when we weren't even half way through, weren't even a quarter way through. I loved him. I loved him with all of my heart and everyday I ache for him to come back, to rise from the dead and find me, to hold me and keep me safe and make me happy.

My music is always slow and sad. It's almost like the blues. I have no music, it all comes from within. But it suits this dark place and those who visit. They're not after company or something in the background or even something planned. They're here to listen to the music, get lost in it as they stare in to their wine, filled with melancholy.

I talk to them sometimes after my set. They all have their own stories to tell. To be honest it's actually really interesting, listening to the woes of others. It takes my mind off of him... Chris. I can say his his name, I can write it, too. It just hurts so much, a physical pain deep inside of me, after two long years alone.

John is a sorry case. He's spent all of his working life trying to give his two little girls and his wife a better life than he ever had, working late, climbing up the promotions ladder. And he's a really sweet man. This wine bar is how he copes on a Friday night after seeing the kids. His wife, Susan I think it is, left him for someone ten years younger than him. "A toy boy," He spat out one day when we were talking over a glass of a deep French red. "He's six years younger than her for Christ's sake!" Now he only sees his two little girls, his little angels he calls them, once a week, but he dotes on them so much.

I wish I'd kept the baby. I wish it with all of my heart. I have never regretted anything so much in my life as giving up that baby. It almost destroyed me.

Everyone sitting at the tables looks miserable. More miserable than usual. I realise that I've been playing an extremely sad piece when I spot tears glancing down the cheek of one regular, Holly. Her tragic tale is that her husband left her for a colleague's wife, who it turns out didn't really want him so much. She has no kids, but the other women has two, a boy in university and a girl at college. Apparently the girl is a right little piece of work, manipulative, secretive, a bit of a slag. Destructive too, towards herself and everyone around her, likes the drinks bottle a bit much. Sounds like the people I used to know if I'm honest, but I've never told Holly about my past.

Here, my past is a secret. No one knows about what I used to get up to. I'm miles away from Bristol. A whole other country actually. I'm in Edinburgh. Off the beaten tourist track, in the New Town with it's enormous houses and tenements.

I stay in the attic of one of these tenement buildings. It's a pokey little place, not much space at all. Just two rooms, a tiny bathroom partitioned off in the corner with a toilet, sink and shower, the main room holding a small fridge-freezer, a single counter with a microwave and over head cupboard on one small wall, a single bed against the opposite wall. There's big box at the bottom of the bed that holds my belongings and an armchair next to the single window.

Sometimes I wish I was back in Bristol, if only to see everyone again, to stand over Chris' grave again... I miss him so much!

I finish my set and lower my head to the audience in a demure bow. They clap slowly and quietly, not being lazy, but appreciating the atmosphere of this place, what this place is. I walk from the stage, clarinet in hand, towards the bar. I keep my case and my bag there, out of the way. The bartender has a glass waiting for me, on the house. Apparently tonight was such a wonderful performance that I deserve it. Just like every other night.

I drink my dry white wine and grab my things. Heading for the door I wonder if tomorrow will be any different.


End file.
